


When It's Twelve O'clock, We Climb the Stair

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleven days after Dean's death, Sam does a ritual to bring him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It's Twelve O'clock, We Climb the Stair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_fairytales/profile)[**spn_fairytales**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_fairytales/), with Hans Christian Andersen's [The Shadow](http://hca.gilead.org.il/shadow.html) as a prompt.
> 
> Huge thanks to [](http://buffyspazz.livejournal.com/profile)[**buffyspazz**](http://buffyspazz.livejournal.com/) for holding my hand through the first bits of this, and [](http://roguewords.livejournal.com/profile)[**roguewords**](http://roguewords.livejournal.com/) for the final read.

_And when it's twelve o'clock,  
We climb the stair,  
We never knock,  
For nobody's there  
\-- Me and My Shadow  
_

  
**Day Eleven.**

When he is sober, minutes slide by on the nightstand clock. Hours trickle in steadily, stacking into days. Mornings rise in his throat like bile, and he spits them out, kneeling on the worn tile in the bathroom. Middays are buried inside boxes of books, and he spreads them out on the kitchenette table among his notes, scrolls and charts. Half-drunk cups of coffee share in his afternoons; sometimes his phone rings and sometimes he picks up, the same questions and answers on both ends, _Anything? Nothing_. Sometimes he goes out, comes back with flasks of holy water, quartz crystals, copper charms, candles in every color of the rainbow. Evenings are full of salt and wax, ink, silver knives, chalk circles, Jack Daniel's and Wild Turkey, Bud and Cuervo. Evenings last the longest, even as he recites incantations, prayers and litanies, one dead language after another, rhymes and prose, until his throat hurts, and the candles sputter out.

When Sam is drunk enough, he talks to Dean to pass the time.

"I found another ritual. Some kind of Orthodox thing, using the _nomina sacra_. Going to try it tomorrow, if I can get all the stuff together – think I can get raven feathers anywhere in this town?"

Dean doesn't answer; hasn't for eleven days, twenty two hours and seventeen minutes. Sam thinks they've talked more in these eleven days, twenty two hours and – eighteen minutes already – than they have in years. Dean has to listen to him, can't pretend he is sleeping, can't put his hands over Sam's mouth or his own ears, can't call him a girl and dismiss him with a grin.

"I can tell you anything I want, now."

He can pick up their lopsided conversation from any point. It doesn't matter where it starts, because it always runs the same circles, turning and twisting upon itself.

"I'm going to fix it, Dean, I am. There are still books I haven't looked through, in that box over there in the corner, see, with the packing tape on the side."

By the time he talks through the second glass, and then the third, Dean's silence becomes harder and harder to bear.

"I should've been better. I wasted so much time, sleeping, driving, hunting. There was only one thing I should have been hunting for. Would the world have ended if I did all my hunting from Bobby's spare couch? Should have spent the whole year there, the three of you could have done the rest of it, tracked the demons without me, I could have… I promised you I'd do anything it took, didn't I?"

The fourth, then the fifth glass drains down his throat, easy as water.

"There are so many things I knew I'd have to do, but I never imagined putting you in the ground would be one of them. You were so cold, Dean. Your mouth was so cold…"

After the sixth glass, Sam feels his way along the wallpaper, slides down onto the bed closest to the wall. He starts the next morning by staggering into the bathroom and kneeling down on the worn tile. He gets the raven feathers later in the afternoon.

 

**Day Twelve.**

The ritual is by far, the most complex he's attempted, although it is similar to an exorcism in purpose, wresting a soul brought down by unnatural forces from demonic control. Sam is not altogether sure of what the effect will be, but he _hopes_, tries to clear his head of anything else.

The Greek is simple enough once he finds the phonetic transcriptions, but he has to spend several hours preparing the rest. He draws on the floor in colored chalk, places candles north and south, and drains a small amount of his own blood into a small brass dish. In the shower, he scrubs himself with the hottest water he can stand, anoints his forehead, chest and hands with cold, sharp-smelling oil, puts on one of the last few clean shirts he has left.

"Short is the thread of man's days, but none may cut that thread save he who spun it," he begins in English, switches to the Greek, sounds the words out slowly and carefully as he dips black feathers in the blood, one by one, splatters heavy drops over the chalked letters. He names each one as he passes, _spirit_, _human_, _savior_, _heaven_, then washes the stains away with droplets of holy water. There is an ache building inside him as he lights the candles and recites the remaining Greek text, words that call for mercy and salvation, restoration and justice. He kneels inside the circle to finish it, and burns the feathers over the candle flame.

He waits for what seems like hours before he puts out the candles and throws the pages of text into a box marked "done". Outside it begins to rain. Sam is exhausted, achy, thirsty. He wipes up the chalk lines and the remaining blood, clears a spot at the table, and pours his first glass of the evening.

By the time the motel door thuds open, he is already so drunk it hardly comes as a surprise.

"Dean," he slurs with a smile, "you're back. Was jus' drinking to you. Tequila?" He offers up the nearly empty bottle, cocks his head, considering something, awkwardly snatches the bottle away.

"Heh, sorry. No more tequila," he announces, tipping the bottle towards the floorboards, watching the very last of it trickling out into a fresh stain, "'Sides, hallucinations don't drink, do they? Man, must be tough for you, Dean, all thish – this – booze, and you can't so much as touch it, seeing as you're not really here."

He tries to stand, steadies himself against the nightstand.

"It's so fucking weird, Dean, you know? You not really being here right now. And yesterday. And tomorrow, too, and the day after that."

The tequila smile slides off Sam's face as he succumbs to the sway, sinks down, feeling for the floor with his hands. He is leaning back against one of the beds, eyes dark and bloodshot.

"I got two, Dean, see? Two beds. Just didn't feel right not to. When will it, do you think?" He points at the bottles lined up like a little army. "Would more of those help?" Sam clutches at his head, blinks, once, twice, keeps his eyes closed a bit longer the third time. " 'M sorry 'bout the tequila, by the way. I know it was yours – that's why I… well, I bought my own after the third day. And here I am, fucking talking to you about it, always talking to you, like you're going to say something back. You won't answer me, will you?" He exhales loudly, watches Dean roll his eyes.

"Don't you ever shut up anymore, Sammy? Were you always such a miserably chatty drunk?"

Dean's voice is fainter, hoarser than he remembers. Mud streaks his clothes, already drying to a crust on his jeans, plasters his dirty hair to his forehead.

Sam looks up, trying to wag a finger, but finds it's difficult to aim when he isn't sure how many fingers he has, exactly. His arm blurs and splits into three, and so does Dean, and Sam mutters weakly that hallucinations brought on by Cuervo with a Bud chaser shouldn't talk back.

"Miserable drunk, am I? Well, pardon me, o figment of my imagination, for not fulfilling your exshpectations. I'd like to see you put on your fucking happy face when your brother di- … oh, that's right, you were so _happy_ you went out and made a deal with a demon. You can see how I'd be thrilled."

All three Deans listen patiently to his impassioned tirade as they gently sway closer, congealing back into one.

"Feel good to get that out, dude?"

Sam sees the black, muddy prints Dean's boots leave on the floorboards, a thick fresh scrape across his cheek, and he can't take it anymore. Eyes closing, he slumps back against the bed, dimly hears someone cursing as everything goes black.

 

**Day Thirteen.**

Morning smells like stale motel sheets, old sweat and… fresh coffee? Sam lifts his head experimentally, and finds that he feels pretty good, all things considering. There is a dull ache rolling around the back of his skull, and his mouth tastes like grit, but he's managed to get in the bed and pull a blanket over himself before passing out. He's even gotten his directions right this time, head on the pillow, feet pointing towards the door. As far as hangovers go, this one is far from the worst he's ever faced. He sniffs again, scans the room for the source of the thick, inviting coffee smell, spares a glance to the other bed.

The _second bed_, pristine, tucked in and properly folded, un-slept in, mint on the pillow. It's nobody's bed, and Sam feels the sickness coming up now, bitter in the back of his throat. He crosses the distance to the bathroom in record time, braces himself on the cool tile and vomits up the entirety of the night previous, and maybe even a bit of the one before. He is about to reach for the sink's cold tap when it occurs to him that the sound of the running shower isn't coming from next door; it's coming from right next to him. There is a brief moment when Sam wonders if he'd left the water on last night, for reasons unexplained, but it's gone the instant he pulls on the curtain.

"Am I still drunk?" he asks in a small voice, taking a step back. He's about to say something else, but the illusion furrows its eyebrows.

"Either get in, or shut the curtain. You're letting the warmth out."

"Dean," is all Sam can stammer, all he has the strength for, but _it_ reaches out a solid, hot, wet arm, and pinches his cheek, hard.

"You're awake, see?"

"Dean," Sam repeats, rubbing his fists into his eyes, "how is – what did you – Christo!" he blurts out, waiting for the inevitable flinch, hiss and growl, but it never comes. Water sluices down his brother's chest, pools at his feet as he steps out of the tub, moving against Sam in a swirl of soap, chlorine and tears.

"Hand me that towel?"

He complies on autopilot, watches Dean wrap the towel around his hips, until it occurs to him that he ought to turn away. He doesn't.

"It worked, it worked after all," he mouths, still staring, "I didn't dream you, last night, it wasn't a hallucination. Wait," he rubs at his forehead, desperately willing his headache to go, "why didn't it work right away?"

"It did. You mean, why didn't I pop up in the middle of your little voodoo circle? I, uh… that's not the way it works, I guess."

Dean examines the floor tile patterns as if they are the most important thing in the world. His fingers are tucked into uneasy fists, and Sam sees the scratches all over the backs of his hands, big red gouges going up one arm all the way to the elbow.

The realization slides into Sam's gut like a machete. He steps past Dean, ripping aside the shower curtain, takes in the crust of dirt on the bottom of the tub.

"Let me see," he demands, turning around, reaching for his brother's hands.

Dean unfolds his fingers, slowly brings them up to Sam's. His nails are ragged, some still lined with black, and the one on the ring finger of his left hand has cracked in half, jagged down the center. What skin is left on the tips of his fingers is beginning to scab.

"I tried to wash it all off. Didn't want you to see. Whatever it is you did, man, it worked, the minute you did it."

Sam forces Dean to sit down on the toilet while he swabs his arms with cotton and peroxide, bandages up the worst of it. He talks through the entire process, a long list of _I didn't think it would do that_s, _I didn't know it would work that way exactly_s and _Oh, God, Dean, I am so fucking sorry_s, until Dean lifts a newly bandaged hand, thick and clumsy in its wrappings, and trails it softly down Sam's cheek.

"Shut up," he says, grinning. "Fucking Christ, do you even understand what you've done?" He sucks in a loud breath. "You dragged me back out of hell, Sam. Let that sink in for a minute. Hell! Couple feet of dirt ain't nothing next to that."

Still smiling, Dean reaches for Sam's hand, presses it to the warm skin of his chest, right over the strong, steady heartbeat, and for a moment, the thump of it against his palm is all Sam can feel. He closes his eyes, lets the sensation wash over him, reveling in what it means. Dean's heart pumping the blood through his veins, Dean smiling, breathing – but there is still the twist and churn low in Sam's belly, because he was slumped on the floor of the motel room, talking to his empty bottles while Dean drew those first breaths, clawed his way through the sheet wrapped around him, through the layers of earth, however fresh or shallow.

"I'm so sorry," he blurts out again, "I should have done more research, should've, I don't know, planned for different outcomes, I should've – "

"You're the worst kind of killjoy, Sammy," Dean sighs against his ear, hot breath ghosting over his neck as he moves; his mouth presses lightly against Sam's unshaven cheek.

He is frozen, afraid to open his eyes. Crouched on the floor, cramped into the small space between the sink and the tub, he holds on to Dean's pulse, insistent under his fingers, Dean's mouth, demanding, on his.

"What," he tries, still manages the "are"; Dean's tongue swipes over the "you" and "doing", licks into him, salty and warm. Teeth nibble at his lower lip, testing, then nip harder, and Sam shivers. This can't possibly be happening, he tells himself. He was so drunk last night he passed out; he is going to count to three and open his eyes, wake up on the floor again, his arm pins and needles, a book his pillow.

_One_.   
Dean sucks Sam's lip into his mouth.

_Two_.  
Dean is flicking his tongue against Sam's, tasting, teasing.

_Three_.  
Sam pushes away, hard, snaps his eyes open, stares at the pale smattering of freckles on his brother's nose.

Dean shifts his gaze to the floor and pulls back, an awkward, guilty smile crooking his lips.

"I made coffee, while you were asleep," he mutters apologetically, "it should still be warm." He exhales noisily, stands up, stepping over Sam to exit the bathroom, leaves the door wide open. Sam follows dumbly, watches him slide out a chair, push aside a pile of books that teeters dangerously but doesn't collapse.

"Hey, Sam? My, um, stuff, my clothes, you, uh, have them, somewhere…" he trails off, gesturing to the towel around his waist. He is glancing around uncertainly, the wet spikes of hair dripping moisture down to his scrunched-up eyebrows, and he looks like a lost child, out of place in this mess of a room. It's completely unlike everything that Dean ought to be, and it brings the churn back to Sam's stomach.

"Yeah, yes, God, Dean, of course," he finds himself answering, "your duffel's right next to your bed – right there, in the corner, you can't possibly think I'd get rid of – "

Dean mutters something that gets lost in the t-shirt he's pulling over his head.

"Come again?"

"I said, 'how long has it been'. While we're at it, what day is it?"

"Thirteen days. Today would've been thirteen. And, uh, Tuesday."

Dean zips up his jeans, turns around.

"Huh. Feels like – never mind. Hey, forgot to thank you for the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"Being too cheap to get me a goddamn casket," Dean chortles suddenly, smacking his thigh with his fist.

It takes Sam a moment to realize it's a joke; he's about to protest the accusation, when Dean lets out a joyous, triumphant whoop.

"You should see your face, dude," he squeezes out between peals of laughter, and it's nothing if not contagious.

 

**Day Sixteen.**

Dean's circling the car, his eyes narrow with suspicion as he quizzes Sam about its care, like it is a child or a cherished pet, and he a teenage sitter. Sam swears up and down that he's kept the seats clean, the paintjob pristine and the tank full; truth be told, he has barely driven it since –

"'Her'," Dean huffs, examining a gleaming side, trailing his finger over a door handle, "honestly, man, show some respect."

"To the car. Just making sure I'm hearing you right," Sam grumbles, but his heart is pounding in his throat as he gets into the passenger seat for the first time since t minus zero. When the key turns in the ignition and she rumbles to life under Dean's hands, charges off into the road, windows down, he thinks his eyes are wet and he doesn't care. Dean is fiddling with the knobs of the radio, squares of sunlight moving softly over his face, and Sam sinks into the leather, watches the poles whoosh by them, stares ahead at where vast blue sky meets double yellow solid.

Neither of them says a word about the cool bathroom tile, their mingled breath; ten miles north, Dean slows to the speed limit, furrows his brows.

"I give up, Sammy, where are we?"

"Take the next left, there'll be signs for the interstate," Sam tells him, pulls out his cell and dials Bobby.

"We can drop off your books whenever you want," he yells into the phone as soon as the line is picked up.

Sometime in the late afternoon, he makes Dean pull into the lot of a small roadside diner, comes out a few minutes later, laden with styrofoam boxes and plastic cutlery in crinkly wrappers. There are sodas in plastic bottles, little packets of mustard and ketchup, three kinds of pie labeled with bright fruit-shaped stickers, cherry, blueberry and lemon meringue.

"Can you believe this place has a Pie of the Day? The blueberry was it," Sam explains, setting the food onto one of the tables outside. He opens the boxes, one by one, naming the contents as he goes, "the cashier said the Cowboy burgers were really good, and the corn chowder."

He watches Dean bite into the sandwich, juice trickling down his chin, and pushes a stack of napkins in his direction along with one of the pie boxes.

"Good?"

Dean sets the cheeseburger down, warily dips a spoon into the cup of chowder.

"Sure," he says, pushing the chowder away, and crumbles off a small piece of pie, "sure."

Sam ends up packing most of the food back into bags and boxes.

"Guess I got a little overzealous with dinner, huh," he remarks thoughtfully, inventorying their leftovers.

"Do we have to go straight to Bobby's?" Dean asks as he closes his eyes and turns his face into the lazy afternoon sun, basks in the light and the warm, dry air.

"There's no rush. Doubt anyone else's got a burning desire to read all the books he's loaned me. Are you tired? Want me to take over the driving for a while?"

"Nah, I'm good. I just… " Dean trails off, pokes at the remnants of his chili cheese fries with a plastic fork.

"You just what?" Sam asks, waiting for more words, but Dean stays silent, contentedly stabbing holes into the lid of the take out container.

"Ok, never mind, I guess," Sam says carefully. "We don't have to go anywhere. We can take it slow. Stop anywhere you want, stay as long as you want. Alright?"

"Alright," Dean nods, angling a hand to catch a glint of sunlight in his ring.

 

**Day Nineteen**

When Dean wakes up screaming, Sam half-expects the room to stink of sulfur, but it doesn't. His bed smells like mothballs, and there is a faint whiff of paint coming from somewhere nearby, or maybe floor polish or window cleaner.

He's got the gun out from under the pillow, cocked and ready, but when he switches on the lamp, the room is empty save for him and Dean, who is clutching at his blanket with white, tense fingers.

"Hey, you ok?" Sam asks, setting the gun back down, and Dean snaps towards him, panting, growls out, "Where were you?"

He blinks owlishly at the lamp and stands, crosses the narrow distance between their beds, trailing his blanket behind him.

"He was gone and I couldn't find him," he says quietly as he climbs into the bed, and Sam has no choice but to make room.

Dean gets up first in the morning, is packed and ready when Sam is just starting to wake. He drinks his coffee, carries bags to the car, yells at other drivers on the interstate, the day like any other until they walk into the room he's picked, and Sam sees the bed, large and cumbersome, in the center.

"Only room they had left," Dean says merrily, the lie obvious between his lips, but Sam thinks of sulfur and doesn't call him on it.

 

**Day Twenty Four.**

"He's not ok, Bobby," Sam explains quietly, nursing a beer in the comfortable, familiar kitchen. "He has nightmares, just about every night, and some mornings, he wakes up and doesn't know where he is."

He doesn't say that every time that happens, Dean grabs for him, moaning and shaking until his hands clamp over a shoulder or a thigh, keens out "Thank god, Sammy, thank god," buries his face in the crook of Sam's arm. He doesn't mention that Dean won't get in the shower without Sam waiting for him on the bathroom floor, murmuring reassurances of his presence through the curtain.

"Well, I'd hate to say it, but did you expect different?" Bobby shrugs, takes a gulp of his own beer. "You are lucky – damn lucky – he wakes up at all."

"I know," Sam sighs, and Bobby claps him on the shoulder.

"Just give it time, son. It'll get easier. He'll come around. Can't get outta hell without it leaving a mark on ya, but it'll fade. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day…" Bobby trails off, gives Sam a meaningful glare.

"I want to go," Dean says to no one in particular as the door slams behind him, and shoves his hands into his pockets. "I want to get out of here."

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Sam supplies quickly, and the man forces a smile, sets his beer down.

"Don't worry about it, Sam."

Dean continues to loom in the doorway, his mouth a tight, thin line, shifting his weight impatiently from foot to foot.

"Really, I'm sorry," Sam says again, "I'll, uh, _we'll_ give you a call, let you know where we're headed, won't we, Dean?"

His brother turns around without a word and pushes the door open with his boot; Sam shoots Bobby one last apologetic look and follows, watches Dean slam his bag into the trunk before getting into the car seat.

The sun blinks in and out between the heavy grey clouds, and dust billows up from the road as the needle climbs up to fifty, sixty, seventy. Ten miles pass in silence, until Dean finally raises his voice above the growl of the engine and says Sam's name, slowly, carefully, as if testing it out with his tongue.

"Just couldn't fucking be there anymore," he adds, snapping the tape deck on before Sam has a chance to respond. Dean whines along with the first chords, brings his hand down on the steering wheel, hard.

"Miiiister Crowley," he belts out, making the first syllable long and loud.

Sam glances over at the start of the second verse, takes in the satisfied smile on Dean's mouth, and allows himself to lean back and close his eyes. When he opens them again, the moon hangs low and heavy in the darkened sky, and the car is still, parked in front of an open door marked "eleven". Dean is leaning against the doorjamb, twirling the keys around on his thumb.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he calls as Sam steps out of the car, "thought I might have to leave you in there till morning."

Dean locks them in, puts the chain on the door and shuts the windows; the bed is up against the back wall, flanked by twin nightstand guards.

He thinks that it only took him six days to get used to waking up with his brother's hands on his body, his brother's voice chanting "Sammy Sam Sam" hot against his cheek and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Dean moans, his nightmare fading, drags his hands against Sam's hip, presses in closer.

The room is pre-dawn grey and full of shadows, and Dean's eyes are impossibly wide, his mouth trailing down Sam's chest, lower, lower, lower.

"What are you doing?" sticks in his throat, "Dean, no!"

"You wanted this, I know you did," Dean chokes out, snakes his tongue around Sam's navel, "I remember."

Sam remembers too, thinks back to Dean's icy flesh under his fingers, his mouth ashen and closed up tight, thinks of kissing him once, and covering him up with clumpy fresh dirt.

"Tell me it's ok," hot, living, breathing Dean rasps against his stomach, "tell me something, anything, just let me hear you," and Sam hardly recognizes his own voice as he answers, reaches out to tangle a hand in his brother's hair.

"It's ok." He doesn't know who the reassurance is for anymore when Dean's hand wraps around his dick and slowly slides down.

 

**Week Nine**

Sam finds the hunt, leafing through the paper in Colorado, the evening Denver skyline gleaming gold against black. He considers it for a full day before telling Dean, looks at the articles and photos on his laptop while his brother naps, making fitful mewling noises into his pillow. When he finally puts the newspaper clipping into Dean's hand, he is ready to share theories, and has sketched a workable plan on the phone message pad.

"Vengeful spirit. Violent death, wife remarried very quickly, and the injuries fit the pattern."

"Has to be the husband," Dean concurs as they pop the trunk. "The guns need cleaning." He runs his fingers over the Beretta, scratches away a piece of lint.

Back in the room, he spreads them on the table, cocks his head as he picks up the sawed-off, hefts it thoughtfully in his hand. After they're done with the guns, Dean moves on to the blades, buffs each with the chamois cloth until they gleam deadly sharpness, reflecting pale slices of walls.

"I'm ready," he says, handing Sam a dagger.

Maybe, Sam thinks. I am. Maybe not.

Sam doesn't expect everything to go smoothly; they haven't done this in what feels like months, years, centuries. He grips the shovel so tightly it hurts, digs through the earth with determination, up, down, in, out, tries not to think of bandages and fingernails full of dirt. Dean surveys the grounds impassively, salt-loaded shotgun at the ready, and it's not until Sam pours the gasoline and the flames rise up, hot and red, that he sees his brother's hands shaking.

"There was fire," he whispers into the burnt, heavy air. "I couldn't get you out." He doesn't look at Sam, fixes his gaze on the grave, follows the smoke rising up into the treetops. "The smell, oh, god, the smell," he moans, losing his grip on the gun, and vomits into the dry, crackling grass.

"I can't, Sammy," he manages between dry heaves, catches Sam's hand in his. "I can't do this. There was fire, I remember, there was fire," and Sam doesn't know what to say to make it better, settles for rubbing the back of his neck in slow circles.

I did this, Sam thinks, helping Dean back into the Impala. My fault, my fault, my fault, thrums through his veins as he sits with him in their bathroom, watches him brush his teeth and gulp down water. When Dean's hands snake around his hips and tug down on his zipper, Sam knows that his brother is broken; the pieces don't fit together quite like they used to, and probably never will.

"We are done," he says, eyelids heavy, brushes his knuckles over the top of Dean's head. "You've done enough hunting. Someone else can pick up the fucking slack."

Dean moans, reaches down to fist himself as his tongue flutters, teasing, over Sam's cock.

 

**Week Eleven**

In his head, everything is split neatly into pre and post. Sam doesn't really notice it until he is staring at Dean, who's been staring at the wall, motionless, for over ten minutes, like it's his new best friend. Old Dean wouldn't have been able to sit still for that long without an objective in mind; then again, New Dean and Old Dean are not quite the same person.

New Dean is mercurial in ways Old Dean never was, giving their waitress a wink and a smile one minute, ripping his napkin into a thousand miniscule scraps the next.

"America's largest weathervane, get off at the next exit, come on, Sammy, come on," he wheedles, demands a picture and a souvenir hat. Both end up in the trashcan of a Michigan rest stop, and Dean peels out of the parking lot, lays rubber like he's being chased. Sam wonders if maybe he is, if hell has a hard time letting go. Although he is feeling fine, he pours salt into the Impala's door pockets, chalks a devil's trap on every motel window, just in case.

New Dean is calmest behind the wheel; he drives for hours, waving Sam off when he suggests a rest or a switch. Whether he is happiest on the road, though, is hard to say. Sometimes Sam asks himself why they're still moving around so much, when they aren't hunting anymore. He wonders if maybe it would be easier to settle somewhere out of the way for a while, laying low without credit cards and interchangeable license plates, but every morning, Dean packs up the car, waits patiently for Sam to follow before he slides into the driver's seat. He always waits for Sam now, in diners and quick marts and gas stations, turns around to make sure Sam is walking right behind him. Sometimes Dean waits for him to go ahead, trails him like a second shadow. He wraps himself around Sam in sleep, wakes when Sam pads across the floor to the bathroom, lies there with his eyes open and empty until Sam returns.

I did this to him, Sam thinks, watching Dean's blurred form through the frosted glass of the shower door. Steam billows up to the ceiling, spreads over the old, stained mirror, settles wetly over Sam's skin. His shirt pulls stickily at his chest and arms, and he wonders how much longer Dean needs to soap and rinse.

"Sammy," his brother calls uncertainly, "Sammy, where are you?"

"Right here," Sam sighs, runs a hand through his damp hair.

"I'm sorry," Dean says over the running water, "sorry, sorry… but it's just – you were so quiet, and I got – sorry."

"It's ok," he allows patiently, "are you almost done getting clean?"

The shower door slides open a crack, and Dean pokes out a soapy hand.

"You could make sure," he says, dripping foam onto Sam's jeans. His voice has lost the shaky, confused quality, traded it in for low and smooth. "You could see, tell me if I'm clean all over."

"Oh, come on, Dean," Sam mutters, but his protests are lackluster at best; he knows how this ends, his jeans and shirt discarded on the floor, his back slumped weakly against the peeling wall of the shower, the spray hitting him full on. Dean's mouth wrapped around his dick. Dean's fingers in his ass.

 

**Month Four.**

Sam takes a sip of the coffee and nearly spits it out; it's bitter, with a heavy, burnt tang, no traces of sugar or milk.

"Hey, are you drinking my coffee?" he glares suspiciously at Dean. "Give me that cup."

Dean studies him for a moment, eyelashes fluttering up and down, but doesn't say anything.

"Come on, hand it over."

"Ok," Dean agrees with a shrug, slides the hot styrofoam in Sam's direction. "Sorry. I didn't really notice."

"Wow, that deep in thought, are you?" Sam tastes this cup; it's just the way he likes it, almost too sweet. "Want to share what're you thinking about with the rest of the class?"

He expects Dean to grin, smack him on the arm. Dean is grinning, but it's a hungry sort of smile, tongue running over his white teeth.

"You, Sammy. Was thinking about you."

A woman walks by them, dumps her cup in the trash, coos to the baby in a sling across her chest. The kid at the counter holds up a paid for slip, yells, "Number twenty eight, your order's ready. Number twenty eight!"

Dean brings his thumb up to his mouth, drags it slowly across his lower lip.

"About the way your dick fits into my mouth," he says, and leans across the table; under the formica, his knee is pressing into Sam's, hard.

"Been thinking about it all fucking day, just wanna get those pants around your knees and swallow you down."

Number twenty eight's food is getting cold. The soda machine rattles, spits ice cubes out onto the floor. Dean sighs, trailing warmth across Sam's ear, enunciates each word of "Want to lick you clean," and settles back into his seat. Picks up his fork, etches swirls and curlicues into his barely touched dinner.

"Now," Sam hisses in reply, dropping a few bills on the table, brushes away the stray _I'm broken, too_ from his conscience, tugs his brother into the parking lot.

The car roars as Sam stomps on the gas pedal, Dean's fingers rubbing lightly over his thigh. They stumble through the motel door, and Sam feels lightheaded already, leans down to Dean's inviting, pink mouth, lets their lips collide.

"Need you," Dean whines, hands deftly working on his belt buckle, the desperation in his voice scraping at Sam's insides.

He shivers as Dean unbuttons him, pop after soft pop, fixes his eyes on the prickly strands of Dean's hair, the tips bleached by the sun, as he goes to his knees. When the warmth washes over him, he is swaying, grabbing onto the wall for purchase, heavy and weak.

His legs and his eyelids are made of lead as he catches his breath; Dean still kneels at his feet, tongue between his teeth, one hand braced against the floor and the other undoing his own zipper.

"Let me," Sam says hoarsely, coming down to the floor, and for a moment, his brother's eyes flash fear.

"Are you sure?" he asks in a small voice as Sam reaches over, covers Dean's hand with his own.

"You should sit in that chair," he replies, guiding Dean back, presses his face into the dark denim.

After, he rests his chin against the warmth of Dean's thigh, lets his eyes travel up, takes in Dean's blissed-out face, his mouth open slightly, his bottom lip hitched between his teeth, little beads of sweat glistening on the bridge of his nose. Streaks of light break in through gaps in the curtain, painting Dean's face and the rest of the room a soft, warm yellow.

He thinks it's a trick of the light at first, the rectangle of sun on the whitewash wall, the stark gray shadow of the chair breaking it up into pieces. There is Sam's shadow, frozen in place, kneeling dark and alone, and there is the cone of the lampshade next to the lines of the chair; it looks like it's been printed onto the wall. Above the shadow of the chair, where Dean's shadow should be, there is nothing but empty, pale yellow sunlight, no longer warm at all.

It takes all of his self control not to scream out. He looks up again, surveys the man in the chair, keeps a small smile plastered to his own face. Dean – Dean? – leans back in the seat, stretches, sated, content. Lets his shoulder pop with a groan, "Mmm, yeah," – Dean has had that bum shoulder ever since that thing slammed him into the wall in Rhode Island – arms that cast no shadows extended to his sides.

The word "thing" catches in his mind, unwanted, unwelcome. A breeze ruffles the curtain, plays tag with the swaying shadows of lamp and chair and Sam, only Dean's left out of the game. Sam doesn't know what it means, and his mouth is dry, tasteless, his nails gouging crescents into his palms. He should so something, say something, _shoot first, ask questions later_, but all that rolls off of his tongue is, "Are you hungry?"

"Eh," the man in the chair shrugs non-commitally.

He has to keep talking, smiling, touching.

"Want to go grab a burger? Extra onions? Cheese fries?" He has no idea why those words seem so incredibly important, but they do.

"I guess. If you want."

He straightens, stands, ever so carefully, his movements ordinary and relaxed. He half-turns, as if ready to step back, and calls his brother's name.

"Dean."

The thing in the chair doesn't have time to answer, because Sam's fist meets its jaw, hard and brutal. Cocking his head, he watches the body slump down, remembers that rope is far away, in the trunk of the car. His belt and Dean's will have to do, he thinks, dragging it over to the bed, its heels scraping the carpet.

 

**Day One Hundred and Twenty Five**

He feels the flesh split, giving way under his clenched fingers, and pulls back, cracks his knuckles before sending his fist back into the thing's red and white mouth. Dean – it – makes a small gurgling noise, and Sam leans in, surveys his handiwork.

"What does it taste like?" he asks, surprised at how calm his voice is. "Is it warm? Salty? Any different than coffee or ice cream? Tell me what it tastes like."

"Ashes. It all tastes like ashes." It runs its tongue across its bloodied gums, moves its broken lips slowly, awkwardly. "Everything except for you." It looks up. "You don't want to hit me again."

"The hell I don't," Sam growls, and the thing stares at him with Dean's wide eyes.

"You don't want to break your brother any more than you have already, do you?"

"I already know you are not my brother. What exactly are you, though? Tell me, or I _will_ break you some more."

"You know nothing," it coughs laboriously, and a bright bubble of blood froths up between its lips. "She ripped me out of him, gave me flesh and breath and voice."

"She," Sam repeats, willing himself to understand, and the thing starts to talk again.

"Every book you opened, every candle you lit – she was worried. You came close with the nomina sacra, you know. She wanted you to stop – everything. Searching, trying, hunting, but you wouldn't, not unless you had what you were looking for." Flakes of red are crusting its chin.

"What I was looking for? A copy, a dupe, a golem… What the hell are you?" Sam screams, tugging at fistfuls of Dean's shirt, the flannel worn and faded, and the thing arches up off the bed, straining against the binding leather.

"The nightmares, the pretense, the – " he can't bring himself to say it, because the rage filling him to the brim is ready to spill over. "She knew exactly what to give me, a puppet that couldn't walk on its own and looked like its strings were cut. The more I'd worry, the less I'd notice; she made me think you crawled out of your goddamned grave!"

"It feels like I did," it sighs, "every moment of every day, except for when you let me touch you. We're not meant to be apart like this. I'm supposed to follow him, I starve without him."

"Starve," Sam mocks, letting go of the flannel, notices absently that a button has sprung free from the thread, "you don't need to eat at all."

It shakes his head, lolling it back and forth on the mattress.

"Need you."

Sam thinks of the draining, languorous haze that seeps from its hands and its mouth, and feels his nails break into the flesh of his palms.

"I wouldn't, if I were with him."

"Stop talking about him," Sam warns, stroking the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb, but the thing doesn't listen.

"Why should I? I remember every single thing he and I have ever done and said and felt. I've been part of him since he was born, and when he died, I went with him, until she ripped us apart and sent me here. This flesh, this body, you think it's supposed to be like this? I talk, I walk, I feel; you know, I dream, now. I've never dreamt before. It shouldn't be like this! It's wrong, what she did, not that 'wrong' was ever a concern for a demon."

"You think this is wrong," Sam manages, the laugh catching in his throat, and the thing relaxes in its bonds.

"You of all people should know exactly what it feels like when a piece of you is missing," it coughs, a trickle of pink saliva staining the pillow.

 

Sam thinks its nose is broken as he splashes the water into its face. Its eyelids flutter, and he tips the rest of the glass over its cheeks, splotched in dark purple.

"What are you," he repeats tiredly, "tell me, or I promise you, I won't let you wake again."

"I used to be his shadow," it mutters in Dean's weak, strained voice. "I guess I'm yours, now."

 

**Day One Hundred and Twenty Six.**

The first shot burns going down, and the second is no better. Sam pours with a shaky hand, dribbles fat, heavy drops onto the tablecloth, dips his fingers into the puddles. He shoves the empty glass along the table, watching it inch closer and closer to the edge, then sends it to the floor with a decisive push. Heat pools in his chest, spreads familiar and welcome through his bones, and he salutes the fallen shards, lifts the bottle to his open mouth.

He brings the empty bottle with him as he feels his way along the wall, swaying around an errant chair. The bed is warm and full as he slides down, feels for the leather straps around bruised wrists, and pulls apart the buckles.

"What happens when I leave? Will it be painful?" he asks as the bed blurs and splits into three, and so does Dean.

"I think I'll fade," Dean says as he moves closer, slowly congealing back into one.

"Huh. How about that. Tequila?" he offers, tipping the bottle until the last drops trickle down onto the bed. "Heh, sorry, no more tequila," Sam slurs, eyes already closing, and stretches out on the mattress. He dimly feels the hands stroking up his back and wrapping around his shoulders as everything goes black.


End file.
